Leslie Charteris - The Saint In Action

"Why didn't you question those fellows about the Z-Man?"

"They wouldn't have come through with a syllable unless I'd beaten it out of them, and I'm not in one of my torturing moods this evening," answered Simon. "Don't worry about the Three Little Pigs — it'll take them about an hour to get out, and I doubt if they'll go after Beatrice again tonight anyway. Ready, darling?"

While he spoke he had been flashing his torch about the garage. There was a telephone in one corner, and this interested him for a moment; but a few odd potatoes lying on the floor against one of the walls interested him almost as much. He picked up the biggest he could find and bent down at the rear of the taxi to jam the providential tuber firmly over the end of the exhaust pipe.

"All set, keed," he murmured, and his eyes were bright with mischief.

The men in the cellar heard the main garage door creak open and then close. After that there was a large silence, broken at last by Ferret Eyes. Exactly what he said is immaterial. Ninety percent of it would have burned holes through any printed page, and the subject matter in between the frankly irrelevant patches cast grievous aspersions on Simon Templar's parentage, his physical characteristics and his purely personal habits. The air of the cellar was rapidly turning a deep blue when the chinless man cut in.

"It's no good cursing the Saint," he said sharply. "The mistake was yours, Welmont, and you know it. Why don't you try cursing yourself?"

"What's Z going to say?" asked Welmont, a frightened note coming into his voice. "It wasn't my fault, Raddon. Damn it, you can't blame me. From the other side of the road the girl looked exactly like Beatrice Avery. How the hell was I to know? She came out of Parkside Court—"

"Save it until later." Raddon cut him off impatiently. "The first thing we've got to do is to get out of here. See what you can do with the door, Tyler. You know more about this damn place than I do."

The taxi driver mounted the stairs and heaved against the door. It creaked and groaned but gave no sign of opening.

"It's jammed," he reported unnecessarily. "The lock's no good, and there ain't any bolts. That ruddy perisher must have done somethink." He swore comprehensively. "Now we're in a ruddy mess, ain't we? I told yer not to bring that ruddy jane to my garridge."

It was not the best of all places for applying force. The stairs were narrow and steep and slippery, and there was no possible way of exerting leverage or even making a shoulder charge. It was equally impossible for two men to stand side by side. Raddon himself went up and examined the door, holding the torch to the cracks so that the beam of light passed through.

"There's only one way to get out," he said. "If we cut away the lower part of the door we can use a plank to shift the props. There are two or three planks lying in the cellar against the wall. You'd better start, Tyler."

The taxi driver cursed and grumbled but set to work. The door was old and misshapen, but it was tough. Tyler and Welmont, working in turn while Raddon held the light, took the better part of half an hour to break through. They had only penknives for tools, and they had to split and chip away the wood in fragments. Finally Tyler forced one of his heavy boots through the opening with a vicious kick. A plank was then thrust through and the props dislodged.

"'S'pose 'e sends the rozzers?" asked the driver anxiously. "I'll lose my licence, that's wot I'll do. I was a ruddy fool to let you use my garridge."

"If Templar had sent the police they'd have been here twenty minutes ago," Raddon answered promptly. "The Saint doesn't want the police in this any more than we do. But he's an interfering swine, and we've got to get after him. Start up the cab, Tyler."

"Give me a charnce, will yer?" protested Tyler, climbing into his seat. "I'll 'ave it out in a jiffy."

He was an optimist. They gave him a chance; but the self-starter, which usually had the engine firing after the first whirr, whirred in vain. Tyler's cursing only added to the ear-aching sounds which filled the garage.

"You'll have no batteries left," Raddon said helpfully.

The taxi man climbed down from his seat.

"Funny bloomin' thing," he rumbled. "She don't usually play tricks like this 'ere. "Tain't as if she was stone cold neither."

"Perhaps you forgot to turn the petrol on," ventured Welmont.

"P'raps there ain't any blinkin' engine," snarled Tyler. "Wot the 'ell d' yer take me for?" He uncovered the engine and addressed a few scorching remarks to it. "Can't nobody show me a light?" he said bitterly. "Think I'm a blarsted cat? Nothink wrong with the jooce." The carburetor flooded at his touch. "Ignition looks all right too. 'E didn't take out the plugs. Nothink loose nowhere…"

He tried again, with the same result. The engine, for some inexplicable reason, amused itself by turning over, but it simply refused to fire. Tyler had been a taxi driver for years, and before that he had worked as a motor mechanic. The cab was his own property, and he always did his own repairs. He tried everything he could think of, but he never thought of taking a look at the rear end of the exhaust pipe.

"We've wasted enough time," said Raddon angrily. "I've got to get in touch with Z—"

He broke off as he caught sight of the telephone in the corner. It was only by chance that he had seen it at all, for it was almost hidden behind a number of ancient and ragged tires which hung on the wall, and Welmont's torchlight had swung in that direction quite casually and without any intentional objective. Raddon's eyes narrowed behind the gold-rimmed pince-nez, and he flashed his own torch into the corner.

"Is this phone connected?" he asked sharply.

"Wot the 'ell d' yer mean?" Tyler demanded, looking round indignantly. "Think I ain't paid the rent for it? Of course it's connected."

"Why didn't you tell me it was here?" Raddon retorted. "I could have used it long ago. Now it may be too late… You heard what Templar said to the Holm girl before they left?"

He went to the instrument, held his light steadily on it and dialled Scotland Yard. As soon as the switchboard operator answered he spoke in a deep voice with a forced foreign inflection.

"Take this down garefully," he said distinctly. "Simon Templar, alias the Saint, alias the Z-Man, is at this moment gidnabbing Beatrice Avery, the film star, from her apartment in Barkside Gourt. That's all."

He hung up before the operator could answer.

" 'Ere, wot abaht me?" demanded Tyler frantically. "You got a ruddy nerve, usin' my phone for that job. They can trace that call. Think I want the cops round 'ere arskin' questions?"

"You know nothing about it," said Raddon calmly. "You left the garage unlocked, and somebody used your phone. What does it matter, you fool? They can't pin anything on you. I had to get through to the Yard at once. If they pull Templar in he'll spend the next two weeks trying to explain his movements. The Yard's been trying to get him for years, and if they catch him red-handed snatching the Avery girl they'll send him up for a ten-year stretch."

He turned to the instrument again and flashed his light on the dial. Placing his body between the telephone and the other two men so that they could not watch the movements of his finger, he quickly dialled another number and waited. He listened to the steady "burr-burr" for a few moments, and then a voice answered.

"Raddon here," he said in a rapid subdued voice. "Something has gone wrong. Can't do anything more this evening. Better turn our attention to the next proposition…" He broke off and listened. "All right. Usual place tomorrow, as early as possible."

He hung up at once and found Welmont looking curiously at him out of his ferret eyes.